Domestic
by terrified
Summary: A one-shot. Sherlock finds himself a temporary little occupation.


**Domestic**

It was starting to get tiresome, running around and not actually being able to fully engage with the world around him. This was as close to being a ghost that Sherlock could get, without having to actually die.

"Well, Sherlock, this is what happens when you cheat death. You are cheated of life as well." Molly told him one evening after he had spent the entire duration of dinner bemoaning the poor state of various criminal investigations he had been tracking on the side.  
"Does nobody think anymore, Molly? Nobody?" he continued, not hearing her remarks.  
"Yes, they do, Sherlock…." Molly sighed. "Just…not like you."  
"If they had just looked at the way the fabric had frayed. They kept going on about the chemical stains on the sleeves but _what about the frayed hems_?" an irate Sherlock continued. "Imbeciles."  
"I can't help you there, Sherlock." said Molly, rising to bring her plates to the kitchen.  
"No, you've helped me enough." Sherlock said, remembering his manners and offered to take her plates.

Molly smiled. He was still the same, itching for adrenalin, searching for stimulation, just something to occupy that bullet train of a mind he had. But he was also starting to understand his current place. He was, for once, being humanly sensible, and to Molly's delight, humanly kind to her. Although it did sadden her to see that he literally was wasting away from not being able to fully do what he yearned to.

"Maybe you need a different occupation…" Molly said, sitting next to a brooding Sherlock who had planted himself on her sofa after the dishes.  
"I don't know what you mean." he responded, almost sulkily.

Molly laughed and kissed him on the side of his cheek and then snuck one on the side of his neck. She felt his skin react to her kiss and she smiled against his skin, kissing him again.

"I hope that isn't the occupation you're hinting at, Molly," he replied, before giving in and taking her face in his hands, his mouth crushed fiercely against hers.

A while later, their faces parted, lungs worn out in breathlessness from their little moment.

"In all seriousness, Molly. What occupation do you suggest?" he asked, his hands still sneaking little touches of her skin.  
"Well, I was thinking…" Molly said, thoughtfully, "Do what you normally did at Baker Street, you know…you said you'd do experiments and all that."  
"Hmm. I suppose."  
"Except I can't go around getting you limbs and things anymore…" Molly said seriously, "That was okay when you were alive, but now you're technically…not."  
"So you can't even get me an eyeball?"  
"No, Sherlock…" Molly said with a laugh. "It would be a dead giveaway. Why else would I need an eyeball, other than to sneak it to you?"

They sat in silence as Sherlock thought more about Molly's proposition. Molly felt bad that she couldn't suggest anything more. She really wanted to help him. But his 'death' left both their hands tied.

"Let's just go to bed, Sherlock." Molly said, planting a kiss on his furrowed brows. "Maybe something will come to you tomorrow."  
"Hmm. Maybe." he muttered, following her to bed.

The next day, Molly woke, as usual, alone in her bed. Sherlock rarely slept and if he did, he never slept a lot. As she got ready for work, she was sure he was still pottering around the house. And if she wasn't mistaken, it sounded (and smelt) like he was _cooking_.

"Oh God…" she whispered in horror, "He's not toasting fingernails again, is he?" Molly dashed out of the room, recalling a few specific stories John had told her of Sherlock's 'culinary' experiments in Baker Street.

"Good morning, Molly," he said, a new brightness in his voice. His eyes were glued to the frying pan in front of him.  
"Wh-what….are you doing?" she asked, not daring to step in the kitchen for some reason.  
"I think…" he remarked, lightly shaking the pan, "I might have found my new occupation."  
"I…I'm glad?" she asked, gingerly stepping into the kitchen.

Molly still didn't dare to look into the pan but she looked around warily and took stock of the kitchen. It was still spotless, no broken plates nor strange substances. Thankfully, they weren't any trails of blood and when Molly peeked inside the fridge, there were no severed heads.

"Go sit at the table. Your complete breakfast is coming shortly." said Sherlock.

In her rush to get to the kitchen, Molly realised she hadn't noticed the impeccably set dining table. When she walked out to sit at the dining table, all four of her egg cups were lined up in front of her, each with a warm egg set inside. There was a small plate with two slices of toast and her usual tray of jam and butter. Sherlock then emerged with a large plate in his hand that contained three sunny-side up eggs and three little mounds of scrambled eggs.

"Um, what is all of this?" Molly asked.  
"Science," he said proudly, setting the plate before her.  
"Sorry, what?" she asked, turning to face him.  
"Domestic science," stated the detective.

Sherlock pulled up a chair next to her and began to explain.

"I boiled these eggs under four different situations. Variables include temperature of egg _before _hitting the water, the temperature of the water itself, when to turn the fire off and whether to leave the pot cover on or off."  
"I-I…see…" Molly replied, a little taken aback.  
"And this plate you see here, based on my calculations of the heat of the pan and the heat of the _oil_, I have achieved three different fried eggs with three different yolk viscosities. The scrambled eggs were just a personal quest, to see if it tasted best infused with milk, butter or some double cream which you incidentally had in your fridge."

At this, Molly chuckled and leaned to kiss him on the forehead.

"Well, how do I fit in to this experiment then, Sherlock? That is an _awful_ lot of eggs to go through…"  
"Well, it's not just a matter of the eggs…"  
"Oh?"  
"The goal, was to establish how best you liked your breakfast eggs, and therefore perfecting them in future." he said, his clear eyes twinkling before her.

Molly smiled.

"That's jolly sweet of you, Sherlock." she said, scanning the array of eggs before her. "Are you sure this isn't…a little beneath you?"  
"Not in the least." he replied swiftly. "It's a matter of science and the pursuit of perfect understanding."  
"The understanding of…eggs?"  
"Well, as a start…"  
"Of…what?"

He smiled and leaned to kiss Molly's soft, beautiful mouth.

"Understanding you." He replied gently. "Now, do please spare me the agony, Molly, and pick an egg."


End file.
